


No Trace of Warmth

by elynne



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Cold, F/M, Sex, Smut, a reasonable extrapolation of canon information, evil sword voyeurism, no really very cold, not sure if necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elynne/pseuds/elynne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthas and Sylvanas meet one last time, before the armies of the world come knocking at Icecrown's gate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Trace of Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: The events in this story are entirely consensual, but references are made to non-consensual sexual incidents and violence in the past. Also, there is a very strongly implied history of abuse, torture, and emotional damage that is inherent in any telling of the relationship between Arthas and Sylvanas. READ WITH CAUTION.

Endless curtains of snow drifted down from the frozen grey sky, carrying with them a skeletal griffin, its wings as silent as the icy flakes. It did not hesitate or search, but swooped straight down to settle into a small alcove nestled among the blades and spires of black metal that pierced the white landscape. A figure in a tattered dark robe slipped from the griffin's back. As the dead mount settled to wait, immobile, for the rider's return, a gloved hand pressed a nearly invisible plate in the alcove, and a door swung open. The cloaked figure flowed inside, the door closed, and as the rapidly falling snow covered the motionless skeletal beast, the ledge was left as unremarkable as the rest of the citadel.

Inside, the figure paused as two huge skeletons stomped forward, clubs raised and eyes glowing a piercing blue. The intruder spoke a short phrase, and the skeletons slowed, then stopped, lowering their clubs. The hood of the cowl was pushed back, releasing a spill of fine white hair and a pair of long, grey ears. 

A draenei in dark armor stalked out of the shadows, his eyes glowing the same blue as the two skeletons, and held out a hand. "Give me your weapons," he said in a voice resonant with metallic echoes.

"No," the elf replied, her own hollow voice sounding faintly amused. Her head tilted as she regarded the draenei, who frowned at her. 

"You're surrendering to us," he said, hand still outstretched. "It is a condition of surrender that you give up your weapons."

"You are incorrect," the elf said. "I am not surrendering. I have come to speak to your leader, and I will do so now."

The draenei opened his mouth, then winced and clutched at his head. He opened his eyes, his scowl deepening as he saw the faint smirk on her lips. "Please allow me to escort you," he gritted out. 

"I would be delighted." In a few steps she had walked past him, and he clenched his fists once before hurrying to follow her. 

Echoes in shadows, biting chill, unrelieved black with occasional spots of glowing blue that turned to watch unblinking as they passed. The walk was fairly short; two hallways and one flight of stairs, which ended in an archway of black metal that opened onto a snowy plateau surrounded by towering spikes. At the far end of the platform, resting on a short dais dusted in snow, was a throne carved of ice, which was occupied by a suit of black plate mail. The only sign that the armor was occupied were the twin spirals of glowing blue mist that drifted up from the visor. Thrust into a mound of snow beside the chair was a black sword, all spikes and glowing cobalt metal, that seemed to regard her with more malignant animation than the armor's occupant.

The draenei, having managed to outpace the elf, stopped at the doorway and dropped to one knee, bowing deeply, then glanced up sharply as the elf continued walking straight past him without so much as a pause. He was about to reach for her, force her down into the snow before his master, when another mental blast crashed into his mind, sending him reeling back down the stairs. Alone, the elf paced steadily forward, not stopping until she stood at the bottom of the frozen dais.

The figure on the throne stood, slowly, and walked forward, its torn cloak sweeping curved patterns into the snow behind it. Pausing on the last step, a hand half-raised, palm up. "Sylvanas." The voice was utterly cold, but tucked deep inside, under the frozen crust, was a hint of a question.

"Arthas," the elf replied, and her voice was exactly as cold as his; but she raised her hand, almost hesitantly, and placed it on his, pale slender fingers resting on the black metal of his gauntleted palm.

"I hoped I would see you, one more time." His other hand reached up and pulled the helm from his head, dropping it carelessly in the snow. Long hair, as white as hers, tumbled down around his shoulders. In death, he was ageless, frozen in the prime of young adulthood; but his face was lined, and her eyes widened slightly as she took in the sight. More gently than any of his servants would ever believe him capable of, he curled his fingers around her wrist and pulled his hand towards him until it rested against his chest. 

"The armies are at your gates. I knew there would not be another chance." Her voice was little more than a breath nearly stolen by the wind that swirled around them, lifting the tendrils of their hair and tangling them together. She drifted forward almost without seeming to move, the crimson gleam of her eyes fixed on his glowing blue gaze. Even after rising to the last step on which he stood, she was still much shorter than his imposing figure, but she showed no fear or hesitation. She did not stop until the distance between them was less than a finger's width. 

"My banshee queen," he whispered, lowering his head. For a long moment they kissed, nearly immobile as the snow blew around them. 

Eventually he straightened up, looking down at her with a sardonic half-smile. "You could still be. The offer remains, will remain until the last possible moment. You know I would--" She raised the fingers of her free hand to his mouth and he stopped.

"I know, my lo... my lich king." There was just a flicker of a tremble in her own smile. "We have had this discussion, this argument, too many times. You know as well as I do, where the division lies, how deep it goes. If it were not for my people... after all I've done for them, I can't..."

"Yes," he said, his voice heavy as he kissed her fingertips lightly. "You've sacrificed so much for them, and they truly love you. Perhaps even as much as--" This time he broke off the sentence himself, with a light shake of his head. 

"When we meet again, I will not be able to hold back," she said, staring at him intently. "The story of my need for vengeance has become their legend, their strength. I would--I wish it had not come to this."

"I know," he said. His eyes closed and he leaned his head forward again, not for another kiss, but to rest his forehead gently against hers. "There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to break you," he whispered, "to truly become your master. But now... I will oppose you and the people you lead with all my might, but I know that I will lose. Because I know that I can't bring myself to destroy you."

Again they froze for several minutes, as still as statues, both with no need to breathe and the discipline of will to remain completely motionless. Snow piled up around their legs, of no concern to either of them.

"I came to say goodbye," Sylvanas said finally. Without pulling her head away, she raised herself to her toes and brushed her lips against his cheek, trailing them up to his ear. "Before I go, I would... like to..."

Arthas leaned away and looked at her, seeing the blue flush that spread across her cheeks, and the half-smirking expression returned. "You would, would you," he said, his already deep voice dropping to a nearly inaudible rumble. 

The banshee took a rare deep breath and nodded. "Since I returned to my body, I have not--allowed anyone to touch me. In my position... there have been offers, requests, even occasional demands. Never once have I had the slightest interest in any of them. But you..." One hand was still gripped in his, held against his chest. She raised the other and stroked the hair at his temples. "When I lie in my coffin to rest my body, when I enter the dormant state that passes for sleep, I think of you. Just once, I want it to be my body that you touch."

As her fingers brushed against his head, Arthas closed his eyes, leaning slightly against her hand. "Yes," he murmured, as if unaware that he was speaking. "All those other bodies that I stole for you... but none were yours. I have... thought of you many nights as well. Wanted it to be yours all along..."

Abruptly they were kissing again, in suddenly urgent passion. Their bodies responded to their thoughts; both were breathing in short, unaccustomed gasps, their hearts beating slowly and sluggishly, pushing thick fluid through veins grown stiff with disuse. Sylvanas gasped and Arthas moaned quietly as the ache of renewed vitality, or something like it, spread through their bodies, sensitive nerves already heightened by arousal twanging and tingling with conflicting signals.

They sank down into the snow ungracefully, landing on their sides. Arthas' armor was an extension of his connection to Frostmourne, and he shed it in pieces with little more than a shrug, tossing them carelessly aside. Sylvanas' attire was mundane, requiring both their efforts to remove. As more skin was exposed, their movements slowed, pressing and sliding against each other. 

Finally, they both lay naked and still, cold pale bodies and white hair tangled around each other as the snow drifted down, gently enveloping them. For a while they simply looked at each other; having rushed to arrive at this moment, neither seemed inclined to hasten any further. 

Arthas' hand gently drifted down the elf's side, stroking her flank from breast to hip. "All those bodies I forced you to possess," he whispered, his fingers sliding across her belly as she shivered. "At first, it was all for my own pleasure, and my efforts to subdue your will. I fucked you and killed you, over and over, and you fought me every inch of the way." The tips of his fingers trailed farther down, brushing through her soft, sparse hair. She made a soft whining noise as he nudged gently between her legs, then paused, cold fingertips rubbing lightly at the very top of her cleft. 

"I gradually lost interest in hurting you... for a while I thought, if I could force you to feel pleasure, perhaps that would give me the key to your spirit." He brought his other hand up, cupping it under her lower breast, flicking his finger across her nipple. The very tip of his finger pressed just slightly against her clitoris. Sylvanas arched her back, pressing her body against his, stifling her moan against his shoulder while her hips flexed. "When I realized that I wanted to please you, that I had come to respect you and thought of you as a partner... it was too late. Even when we argued about the value of free will, I valued yours, far too much to take it away. And then I felt my control of them slipping, and we made our arrangement..." As his finger slid down and curled up inside her, he bent down, licking at the tip of her exposed breast and then catching the cold, hard nipple in his lips. She cried out, her hands clutching his hair. Her breath hissed out as her body shuddered, hips wriggling and grinding onto his hand as she clenched around his finger. 

He lifted his head, his glowing blue gaze hungry as he watched the climax shudder through her body. "Coming here, taking this throne, sending my plague back to the southern continents... fighting for power, for control... it has me, you know." Sylvanas' eyes opened slowly as he whispered. His head nodded just slightly towards the sword where it rested in the snow, seeming to loom over them, watching balefully. "I fight for it, and I fight against it, but I always lose. It knows me too well. It is a part of me. There is so little of me left." 

"Does it... is it aware?" she asked, her gaze flicking to the dread weapon for an instant.

"Not really," he said, and sighed, pressing his body against hers. His lips stroked her ear as he whispered. "It doesn't understand this, at all. It understands power, violence, control, but not surrender. It can't stop me from doing this, because it doesn't understand what I'm doing. But giving this to you--it will block me, afterwards. It will know it if I try again. This will be the last time I am allowed to feel these things." 

Sylvanas glanced again at the sword, then closed her eyes as Arthas' hand cupped under her thigh and lifted it up over his leg. She bit her lip as he opened her to the freezing air, hooking her knee over his elbow and then running his hand down the back of her leg. Her back arched and she gasped as he pressed his fingers inside her. 

Now their lips met again, his other arm squeezing up between them to cup her cold breast and tug at her nipple as his fingers were replaced with his erect shaft. He slid into her slowly, gently, until his entire length was buried inside her body. His hand remained, lightly rubbing her clit. With one hand still tangled in his hair and the other clutching his hip, the banshee groaned, then bit his tongue as her body spasmed, squeezing his cock rhythmically. 

Arthas moaned in response, then abruptly rolled her onto her back. One hand cupped her buttock, the other grasped a handful of hair, and he began to thrust into her, raising his head and gritting his teeth as he tried to maintain a slow pace. Sylvanas lay under him, lips slightly parted as she watched, trying to absorb every detail, etch it into her memory. Sorrow that this would be the last time she touched him filled her heart for a moment, then with a deliberate effort, she pushed it away. If this was to be their last time, then she resolved to enjoy every moment of it, and carry the memory of his last tenderness with her into the rest of her solitary existence. With a small, playful grin, she stretched up and grasped his throat in her teeth.

Eyes widening in surprise, Arthas grunted, then answered with a grin of his own. Setting his knees in the snow, he pulled almost entirely out of her, until only the tip of his erection was still nestled within. Letting out a tiny growl, she wriggled her hips, attempting to draw him back inside. After holding his position for a long moment, he suddenly thrust forward, slamming his full length into her as their hips met, the impact almost bruisingly strong. Sylvanas released his throat and tossed her head with a yowl that climbed into a keening wail as he pulled out again. Very deliberately, he repeated the motion, counting to five between each push. After a dozen impacts, Sylvanas was bucking helplessly under him, clutching his hips as she attempted to cling and keep his cock inside her. 

"I can't... hold on, much longer," he gasped, pulling out again.

"Tease!" she responded with an impatient wriggle. "Time to let go, then!"

"Yessss," he hissed, plunging his entire shaft into her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. His movements lost all pretense of control, pressing against her as though he wanted to wrap his entire body in hers, merge them together while he slammed into her. A cry built in his throat, releasing in a series of longer and louder groans, and then he was twitching, her arms and legs wrapped tight around him, holding on and riding his orgasm. 

In the storm of released pleasure, Sylvanas felt something else, something aside from the physical sensation, that flowed into her mind. Something bright and warm, the only warmth in their union, even as tears formed in his eyes and leaked frozen trails down his cheeks. Gasping, she forced herself to concentrate, and realized that he was taking advantage of the moment to force out the last few, frayed scraps that remained of his living soul, shoving it in her direction in blind, desperate faith. 

Arthas' body collapsed atop her, his head lolling as if unconscious. She could feel a suffocating pressure of furious darkness rising from the sword as it lashed his body, scrambling for control. She shoved him off of her and reached for her bow, the only item she'd brought that she was not willing to leave behind. 

As her hands closed around the weapon and the words of the spell that would return her to her chambers began tumbling from her lips, Arthas rose, clad once again in his black saronite armor. His face was impassively cold in the last glimpse she caught before his helmet slammed into place. The spell took hold and her body shimmered as he grasped Frostmourne, its dread blade striking into the space where her chest had been even as she disappeared.

In the gloom of her private chambers, Sylvanas lay panting. Her hand reached up and brushed a wound on her chest, a shallow notch left by the very tip of a sword blade that she knew would never heal. Behind the injury lay a tiny, tightly coiled ball of golden heat. She threw her head back and let out a scream, the despairing wail of a banshee flowing out of her rooms in a dark stream that washed through the cobwebbed corridors of the Undercity and caused the living and the dead who heard it to flinch, a cry of pure loss. 

He'd given her the last of himself. Arthas was now entirely destroyed; all that remained in his body was the Lich King, the dread will of his cursed sword. Curling into a ball on the hard stone floor, Sylvanas sobbed, her fists clutched tight to her chest, clinging tightly to the last precious vestige of the only man she would ever love.


End file.
